


It Takes One to Know One

by kerithwyn



Category: Hannibal (TV), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Crossover, Flash Fic, Gen, Hannibal is the patron shrink-saint of monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 04:38:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4863464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerithwyn/pseuds/kerithwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How many killers has Hannibal counseled, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Takes One to Know One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Destina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/gifts), [Dorinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorinda/gifts), [killabeez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/gifts).



> For Destina, Dorinda, and Killabeez for introducing me to Hannibal. I ask forgiveness that I could only begin by approaching him obliquely, through a more familiar canon.
> 
> Takes place during _Sandman_ #14, “Collectors.” Also inspired by [this tumblr post](http://kerithwyn.tumblr.com/post/129710184088/muffichka-hannibal-lecter-vs-sandmans) (disturbing imagery: Hannibal as the Corinthian).

The attendees of the first annual Cereal Convention eyed each other at first with suspicion, and then with a certain longing. With whom else could they ever discuss their true desires? Their methods and techniques? How they chose the beneficiaries of their particular love, or hatred, or emotions too mixed to be granted a name?

Slowly they began to compare experiences, discuss their inspirations, boast about their conquests. Some of these—no need for coyness among friends!—serial killers had been about their business for decades; some, only recently come to their true calling, had just made their first kill and were eager to brag about their ingenuity, how the po-lice and Fibbies simply _had no clue_. The experienced killers, mostly older and somewhat wiser or at least more realistic, simply smiled indulgently. Sooner or later, they quit or they were caught. And since none of them believed they would—could—ever quit, they all had contingency plans against their inevitable discovery.

But this weekend was for the most unusual opportunity to socialize with the only people who might understand them. So Nimrod and Fun Land and Moon River and the Candyman and the Lip Collector and the seventy-odd others determined to keep to happier topics. How they got started. Where they found the inspiration to keep going.

Regardless of their duration of submission to their calling, they all gazed at the Corinthian with awe as he walked among them, appreciating his long specialized history. None of them dared to comment that he looked far too young to have amassed such a legendary status, or to try to peer behind his ever-present shades. Some things were sacred. And he was their idol, telling them that they were sacred too: they were soldiers of darkness. Gladiators, warriors, gods. _They kill to kill._

Words to live by.

Exhilarated, the attendees began to compare notes on those they had encountered along their journeys. The discussion turned to therapists they had seen, willingly or otherwise. Most had been sent to counselors at some point or another by well-intentioned parents, or social workers, or asylum or prison administrators. Some, not initially accepting of their true natures, had even sought out “help” in controlling their quite natural urges.

Most shrinks were spoken of in derogatory terms. No matter their credentials, few could truly comprehend the depths of obsession, much less emphasize. Or less likely still, sympathize.

Still, one name came up, again and again. A name spoken with uncommon respect by these men and women of singular habits.

“But Dr. Lecter,” the Doctor said, his gruff voice unusually deferential, “Dr. Lecter understood me. On a deep, personal level. He told me—”

“—to follow my instincts!” Nimrod broke in, earning himself a glare but not caring. Convention rules were in effect. “To go where my heart led me. Where my knife pointed.”

Dog Soup was nodding. “He helped me come to terms with being a woman in a traditionally male profession. Without being a killer nurse or black widow.”

The men around her listened politely. They’d heard her rant before, but everyone knew the women among them tended to be...volatile. Even with the rules theoretically preventing violence between attendees.

“Anyway,” Moon River mused after a decent interval, “I wonder how many of us he’s seen? It can’t be an accident so many of us ended up on his couch.”

“And I wonder,” said the Doctor, regaining his place in the conversation, “if he has urges of his own?”

There was a respectful silence as they contemplated the possibility. “He would be among the greatest of us,” the Oregon Devil finally said, sounding almost worshipful. “He would be legend.”

The Corinthian smiled as he passed by the group. With all his teeth. Oh, Hannibal, he mused, what a nightmare you are. And I know from nightmares.

And so the time passed happily, at least until the end of the weekend when something...unsettling...happened to the Corinthian, something no one could remember. The attendees slunk away, no longer certain of their holy purpose.

Not a few resolved to make an appointment with Dr. Lecter, to help them regain their nerve and sense of righteousness.

None of them had any doubt he’d help them find their way back on the proper path.


End file.
